Brides
by Ethanamide
Summary: If the room was full of brides, why was she there? Set straight after TAB, not S4 compliant, Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

I've had this floating about since TAB, thought I ought to put it up!

* * *

" _This room is full of brides,"_

" _Tending to our homes, our children,"_

" _The women, I, we, have lied to, betrayed, and we have ignored and disparaged"_

-The Abominable Bride

1895 was a fairly quiet year in England. A few plays, births and deaths that would be remembered, but nothing overly significant to the layman. Dig a little deeper and one would find wars were being planned, parts of empires threatening to think for themselves, and an underground movement that would soon change the lives of millions of people. Behind every successful man is a woman making sure he turns up in the right place on the right day; whether it be his wife, or his housekeeper. Making sure he looks suitable, and has everything he needs. She works silently and diligently, knowing that her male charge takes all this for granted. When your only two options in life are subjugation or alienation, it would not be remiss to think that a little unfair.

She looked so beautiful in the candlelight of the church, he saw her so often as another persona he'd almost forgotten just how stunning she was in her own right: thin lipped and indomitable, every bit the warrior her cause needed. Yet again John had missed the point, it wasn't that he hadn't noticed Hooper was a woman, but that he didn't want to draw attention to it. Not only was she the best pathologist he'd ever worked with, but he didn't trust his mouth not to run away with itself. She was a force to be reckoned with when she chose to be, and he did not doubt she would put him in his place for any ill-comment, meant deliberately or otherwise.

* * *

Sherlock woke up in hospital with just Mycroft for company. There was something he couldn't quite grasp, it was on the tip of his tongue, but the information he sought was not forthcoming. He could sense it, but not reach it, maybe he needed to take a little more. He replayed the scene, a roomful of brides, they were all brides, why couldn't he reconcile with this? His train of thought was broken by his brother's strange question:

"Was one of these brides yours?" There was an almost hopeful tone to Mycroft's enquiry, no mocking or displeasure in his voice.

"I'm not married" Sherlock replied, confused. Mycroft blinked twice, sent a text and sighed heavily.

"Are you sure about that?" He asked, with the air of a man who had asked the same question many times but always wanting a different answer to the one he knew he'd receive.

"You're not supposed to take married to my job literally Mycroft." Sherlock drawled before drifting back out of consciousness. Mycroft shook his head, took one last look at his brother's peaceful face and departed the room, off to update the only other person who knew of his condition.

"Seriously? That's it. There's nothing else that can be done. We're going to have to tell him," Molly shouted, exasperated, gesticulating wildly to try and dispel some of her pent up frustration.

"You are aware that telling him could kill him?" Mycroft reminded flatly, trying his best not to flinch as the diminutive pathologist turned around to face him, eyes ablaze.

"I am a doctor, Mycroft, I know, but I think he needs to know now, this has gone on long enough. The question, is who do we tell first?" She paced, her words coming quickly and not quite as coherently as she would have liked. After half an hour of ranting, Molly had calmed down, and been talked into giving the situation 24 hours to develop before taking any drastic action. The pair exited her office and made their way up to the private room Sherlock was being housed in until he stabilised and could be moved to another secure facility.

Sherlock was awake when they entered his room, a little groggy and unsure, but that wasn't unusual for him after an overdose. She asked him a series of questions that were designed for this situation, and was pleasantly surprised by the answers he gave. She had more luck then Mycroft at extracting some usable information, and for some of the questions he was not entirely off the mark, leaving them was curious as to where it may lead. They'd been through this enough times to know the patterns of behaviour usually exhibited, and this wasn't it.

John and Mary were waiting outside as no one was being granted admission to the room without Mycroft's express permission. The eldest Holmes gave the Watson's a brief summation of what had happened in their absence, told the agent on the door to let the pair in any time, and promptly left.

Molly, Mary and John returned the next day around lunchtime to check on Sherlock, hoping that there would be improvement in his physical and mental states.

"Peggy! Why am I here? And who are they?" Sherlock asked as soon as they'd entered the room, his tone of voice betraying some level of distress. If Molly was surprised by the use of another name, she didn't show it, simply picking up his notes and asking him a very basic question:

"Do you know what year we're in?" She tried to keep for voice as steady as possible,

"2008" He replied, looking at her like she'd just grown another head. Molly's expression softened a little, there was some hope after all.

"You OD'd again," She said quietly, answering his earlier question, and choosing not to correct his wrong year.

"But...but I've been clean for years, I… I don't understand?" Sherlock stuttered somewhat uncharacteristically, clearly unable to understand why he'd be anywhere near drugs at this point in his life. Molly tried to steer the conversation away from the drugs, to calm him a little, and re-introduced the Watsons.

"This is John and Mary Watson, they found you and rang for an ambulance, your brother intercepted," She explained, realising milliseconds after saying it that mentioning Mycroft wasn't her smartest move.

"You can't let Myke take me away again, not like last time. Peggy!" He panicked, the heart monitor beeping more quickly than any of them would have liked.

"Shhhh, I won't. He's not told your parents yet," She soothed, her own heartbeat slowing a little as his shoulders sagged in relief. "We'll be back to check on you tomorrow," She continued, putting the notes away, and shuffling a very confused John and a thoughtful Mary outside. As planned, John and Mary were intercepted by Mycroft allowing her to escape to the sanctuary of her office, and allow herself to decompress without them asking questions she couldn't answer but Mycroft could deflect.

That evening Mary and John made the trek back to Bart's after the surgery had closed, intrigued as to whether this afternoon's episode would be repeated, and if they could get any more information about this alternate persona he seemed to exhibit. It turned out, however, that this visit was far less eventful, with no mention of anything peculiar having happened earlier. Not pleased with Sherlock's flippant attitude to his overdose, John took the opportunity to rant at his friend for nearly twenty minutes before Molly came in, rolled her eyes and fussed over the IV and his notes for a while, letting John get his concerned rage out of his system.

"Were you attempting to kill yourself this time?" She asked bluntly, after John had finished.

Sherlock merely furrowed his eyebrows and looked across to Mary, sat quietly in the corner, a calculating look on her face.

"What makes you ask that?" He replied, trying to deduce her reasoning.

"I've read your notes genius, these are not unique circumstances," Molly patronised, a knowing smile on her face. Sherlock, however, was not buying it, Molly's behaviour, John's initial tentativeness and Mary's face, coupled with Mycroft's odd questioning yesterday, meant something was afoot.

"What are you not telling me? OUT. ALL OF YOU." He barked, shutting his eyes and delving into his mind palace.

A week passed and there was no repeat of the Peggy incident. John and Mary visited regularly, but only ever with Molly or Mycroft, the two would not be in the same room in public. They made no pains to hide that they met in Molly's office daily, but never invited the other two, and always came out looking a little off. John caught Mycroft comforting Molly at one point, and nearly sent himself to be tested for hallucinogenic substances. Sherlock spent most of his recovery asleep or brooding over this supposed withheld knowledge that neither Mycroft nor Molly would breathe a word about. Once he was back at Baker Street, he would be visited daily by Molly, Mary and John, one in the morning, another in the afternoon and the last in the evening. The order didn't have any regularity to it, as it depended on their jobs, but it made sure that he was eating and taking the appropriate medications to help his body recover.

Two weeks in and he was almost off the methadone, as per his previous detoxes. Molly was the first to visit that morning, after Mycroft had visited the night before and indicated that something was off with his brother. She arrived around 10 am, fully prepared to make breakfast for them both and eat her own while she was ignored, however, all thoughts of any food went out of her head as soon as she entered the flat and heard the frantic movement coming from upstairs. Cautiously she climbed the stairs, trying to glean as much information before she went in as possible. The doctor that she had been seeing with Mycroft agreed that if he was to make a full recovery then now was likely, and she needed to be there for that moment. She pushed the door ajar and peered around the corner, where she saw Sherlock dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown (thankfully not just a sheet) and searching for something as if his life depended on it.

"What are you looking for?" She asked

"That's the problem, I'm not sure." He replied, causing alarm bells to ring in Molly's head. "My mind palace is in total disarray, there's something missing and I can't quite work out what it is. No doubt you know my brother visited last night, which is why you're here this morning. What do you know that I don't? Why won't you tell me? I know you're both hiding something from me? Oh good God Molly, don't tell me you've shacked up with him of all people?"

"I know a lot that you don't, like how the solar system works,"

"Now is not the time to deflect Hooper," He blinked, and fell down onto the sofa clutching his head, "Hooper, you were there, but dressed as a man, and then in the room full of brides, making you a bride… You married Mycroft?!"

Molly did her best not to giggle or wince, her two go to options when it came to the elder Holmes, and remain as blank as possible. He may be on the wrong track, but he was headed in the right direction. Thankfully, he was too caught up in his train of thought to take full deductive notice of her.

"No, he'd never marry, besides, he's too much of a fatty for you. What is it? How can you have been engaged to Tom if you were already married? You never had any intention of going through with it- he was gay? Why do so many of your dates end up gay? You need to keep up the appearance of being single despite being married, but why? What does your husband say? Does he encourage it? Did he leave? Did you actually marry Mycroft?"

Molly was almost in tears by the end of his little logic rant, she knew he was trying to make sense of muddled information, but that didn't mean it hurt any less. As if summoned, the man in question appeared through the door, he surveyed the room briefly, before sighing and moving towards the kitchen.

"Ah. I think we should sit down, I'll make tea. Molly, best you make some breakfast, this could take some time." Mycroft said, his gentle tone putting Sherlock on edge. He studied the two as they went about their domestic duties in a surprisingly synchronous fashion. They'd spent far more time together than he'd deduced in the past, he knew Molly was the main enabler of his brother's cake habit, but didn't realise the connection between the pathologist and the ice man was quite so… friendly. It made his head hurt to try and reconcile this image ahead of him with what he usually associated with the two. A strong, bittersweet smelling beverage was placed next to him, an herbal tea associated with helping with headaches and shock in some cultures.

"I believe you have been making progress," The eldest Holmes remarked,

"A little. He's come to the conclusion that we're married," Molly smiled weakly, trying to see the humour in her words. Mycroft's eyebrows rose marginally, not quite there, but an interesting notion nonetheless. They sat and drank their tea in silence, Sherlock watching the pair on his sofa, Mycroft doing his best impression of staring into space, and Molly staring at the floor in apparent fascination. The silence was neither awkward nor comfortable, simply existing as mutually beneficial to all parties at this time. Once the tea was finished, and a small breakfast eaten, Molly took three small objects from a box in her handbag.

"You kept your husband's ring?" Sherlock asked quietly, his brow furrowed in confusion,

Molly nodded, putting on both her engagement ring and wedding ring with palpable relief. It had been a long time since she was able to wear them anywhere but the safety of her bedroom. She put the third ring on the chain she had around her neck, hiding it under her hideous jumper of the day.

"He died?" Sherlock asked shortly, his inability to deduce what had happened irritating him.

"He… left." She replied, hesitant, trying to make sure her choice of wording was apt.

"He left but you never divorced." Sherlock stated, staring at her left hand as if it were the most peculiar thing in the universe, and may catch fire at any second. Molly sighed,

"He said he'd come back." She said softly, fresh tears falling down her face. In a move that made Sherlock nearly fall out of his chair, Mycroft put his arm around her to comfort her. The whole scene made him extremely uncomfortable, and not only because Mycroft was being a human, which perturbed him further. After a few minutes Molly excused herself from the brothers to splash her face and calm down a little.

"Tell me more about the brides," Mycroft stated, curious about the drug addled hallucination, and what Sherlock's subconscious was trying to tell him.

"They were suffragettes, still underground. One of them shot herself in the head and was thought to have survived, I wanted to know whether she could have. There were many of them, a room full of brides, not wives or mothers. Trophies to be paraded, or dowries to be squandered, living as property and not people. They would tend to our homes, our children. They were the women I, we, have lied to, betrayed, ignored and disparaged" Sherlock spoke as if in a trance, regurgitating his words from the drug induced hallucination.

"Our children?" Prompted Mycroft, he needed to cover the delicate ground while Molly was out of the room.

"I've never had children Mycroft; I doubt I ever will. It is most likely a metaphor," Sherlock scoffed, the words feeling strange in his mouth, the whole situation not adding up.

"But for what brother-mine?"

"I wish I knew. My mind palace is disjointed; parts are entirely inaccessible. There is something not quite right about this, and I can't put my finger on it," Sherlock vented, exasperated by the whole situation.

A loud beeping from Molly's handbag brought them all back down to Earth as she ran out of the bathroom, tripped over her own feet and landed in a heap by the sofa. She groaned and in the process of grabbing her phone, knocked her bag over, tipping some of the contents onto the floor, and before she could scrape them into her bag, Sherlock had picked up one of the photos she carried around with her. It was battered from having been carried around for so long, despite having been re-laminated numerous times. The picture was of a couple on their wedding day, a young woman in a 1950s style dress, next to a man much taller than herself, with curly dark hair and a broad smile on his face in a full morning suit complete with top hat. They made quite a handsome couple, evidently very in love, unaware of the photo being taken. It had been a gift, written underneath in faded marker was the words: Peggy and Liam, with love, G. Sherlock stared at the photo for some time, he recognised it but couldn't say from where, or who the people in the photo were. He made the deductive leap that something this sentimental could only be Molly's own wedding photo, but it clashed with the use of the name Peggy.

"You stopped being called Peggy the day your husband left, but he wasn't the only one who called you by that. You re-invented yourself with a new contraction of your hated given name." He muttered, the deduction slow and difficult, like walking through knee-high mud in slippers.

"Anyway, it's time you took this and I went to work," Molly announced with forced cheerfulness, handing Sherlock two tablets and snatching the photo away, before running out the door.

Mycroft left shortly after, having supervised the pill taking, and after John had been to give him the next dose, Sherlock promptly fell asleep in his chair. He awoke several hours later with a splitting headache and confusion at the state of his surroundings, he must live here, although he didn't remember it to be his house, and there was no trace of his wife, or any of her things. He rang his brother to try and ascertain as to whether this was some sort of punishment for his recent overdose, although he wasn't sure why that had happened. He'd been clean for a long time, taking pride in his sobriety and looking forward to starting a family, why would he overdose when his wife was heavily pregnant? Maybe he'd been set up. It was then that he noticed he was not wearing his wedding ring. Twenty minutes and two anguished phone calls later, Mycroft walked up the stairs to 221B, intrigued as to which point in time they were today.

"Myke, where's Peggy? Where's my ring? Why am I here? Oh God she's left me, she's finally left me." He asked frantically, automatically reaching for one of the worst case scenarios his addled mind could find.

"She's done nothing of the sort," Mycroft replied irritably, "She'll be here soon," He continued a little softer, trying to keep in mind who his brother thought he was at this moment. The two had a cup of tea, another bittersweet brew for Sherlock and an English Breakfast for Mycroft, while they waited for Peggy to arrive. Surely enough, as they finished the last of their drinks there was a thud indicating the front door had been shut. A flustered and out of breath Molly burst in through the door, breathing a heavy sigh of relief at the calm sight in front of her.

"What's the problem?" She asked, hoping beyond hope that it was one they could deal with.

"I seem to have misplaced my wedding ring, and I have no idea why I'm here." Sherlock stated,

"We live here, and I have your ring," She answered with a smile, taking the band she'd secured on the chain yesterday and handing it to him.

"We don't live here, none of your things are here. I'm pretty sure I live here, why don't you?" He replied, words spewing out quickly as he tried to make sense of his life.

"You took on this place as somewhere you could meet clients, and stay when you were on a particularly difficult case. Eventually you moved yourself in here subconsciously. I sold our house and have a small flat of my own closer to work." She explained, or rather, used the explanation agreed upon should this ever happen. Sherlock looked at his brother for confirmation, but Mycroft simply shrugged, they hadn't planned too far into each eventuality, and without knowing how long this phase would last, there was no need to overcomplicate things. Unluckily for all of them, however John was on first watch this morning, and chose that moment to walk in the door.

"Liam, Dr Watson is overseeing your aftercare. Don't look at me like that, I can't take 6 weeks off work to look after you. He pops in most days." Molly hurried out another explanation, hoping that this wouldn't throw a spanner in the works.

"Thank you, have I met you before?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion,

"We, err my wife and I, we found you after you overdosed." John answered, harking back to what was said in the hospital that strange morning, one that still had no explanations from Molly or Mycroft. Sherlock looked the man up and down, something about wasn't right, something about this whole scene wasn't right. There was a sharp pain in his head before he passed out, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the fireplace.

"Bloody marvellous. Help me put him to bed Mycroft." Molly sighed heavily, this was not what they needed.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 is here! There will be a part 3 to round this all off, and hopefully you won't have to wait as long for that as you did for this (sorry). Please note there is a about as much medical realism here as the show itself… Thank you all for your lovely support, enjoy.

* * *

John watched Molly and Mycroft heave the unconscious detective into his bed, hovering in the living room deliberately, hoping to get more information out of the two. Once Sherlock was settled, however, Molly all but ran out of the flat, and Mycroft started to make phone calls, neither really acknowledging his presence. He rolled his eyes and made his way home, unable to stop thinking about the similarities between this situation and Sherlock's fake suicide. He was sure that this was some scheme that involved Moriarty, the overdose had affected him beyond the hallucinations – but who was to say that wasn't the point? John shook his head and put his key in the door, conspiracy theories could wait until after dinner.

The first 24 hours of Sherlock's unconsciousness were the most fraught, with Molly taking a day off work to keep an eye on him, Mycroft phoning on the hour, every hour, John popping in twice, once with Mary, and Mrs Hudson's fussing. As the end of the 24 hours approached, it became clear that their worst fears were being realised: a coma. Subsequently, there was a visit from three separate medical professionals, a long phone call with the Holmes parents, and a lot of tea, which was a good thing, as they were all exhausted.

Two more days passed, and as expected there was no sign of Sherlock waking up. That evening Molly and Mycroft paid their doctor a visit, which only succeeded in making Molly incredibly angry, and when they finally got back to Baker Street, she wouldn't stop pacing.

"MARGRET ANNE HOLMES, YOU SIT DOWN THIS INSTANT. You're giving me a bloody headache." Mycroft barked, exasperated, head in his hands. Molly pulled a face and flopped down into Sherlock's chair, an unwitting imitation of her husband. The two spent an hour in intermittent silence, trying to figure out the best way to explain the situation to everyone else involved in Sherlock's life, without knowing which Sherlock was going to wake up. John couldn't keep a secret to save his life, and it would not be helpful to anyone if Sherlock awoke with the same memory loss as just before his exile, as it would only be a matter of time before he realised John wasn't telling him something, and endeavoured to get the secret out of him. If he woke up thinking it was pre-2010, then it would be easier, but the best-case scenario would be if he awoke with all his memories intact. That was, of course, if he woke up at all. Getting nowhere, and with increasingly insistent stomach growling, the pair called it a night, no closer to an answer.

Another day passed with no response from Sherlock, and Molly decided to start reading to him, short excerpts of her diary, John's blog, stories from their youth.

A full week had gone by and hope was starting to fade. Dark, practised conversations between Mycroft and Molly were continually interrupted by John or Mrs Hudson, leaving no-one in a particularly good mood.

A fortnight yielded no improvement, but that didn't stop Molly's nightly story time before she passed out with exhaustion next to her love.

A fortnight and 2 days saw Molly leave London with no notice to anyone. Mary and John kept popping in, Mycroft kept watch via the cameras he'd had set up in his brother's room.

Another week passed and Molly was still absent, life moved on. John and Mary would check in before and after work, with their baby, Rosie, after she was born. Mummy and Daddy came to visit with Mycroft one afternoon, somewhat relieved that his catatonic state was not drug induced.

It wasn't until a month had passed, that Sherlock started exhibiting signs of life again; faint hope blossoming into impatience. It took 3 horribly slow days for him to open his eyes, and although there had been no sign of, nor word from Molly since she had left, within two hours of Sherlock stirring she was back in Baker Street. She was unsure of which variant of her husband would return, so she prepared for as many eventualities as she could. The highest priority being divorce, something Mycroft had also readied himself for, both in terms of paperwork and his sister-in-law's reaction. It was likely that he would spend much of his time trying to reconcile between his recent character and the juxtaposition of his previous life, Molly was hoping that he'd have access to all his memories, otherwise a full explanation had the potential to not only be very painful, but put him back into a comatose state.

Only Mycroft and the doctors were permitted to visit at first, in case the last couple of months had been deleted in their entirety, so as not to upset any one or cause confusion so early on in the healing process. Doctors milled about 221B and declared him well enough physically, having recovered from the overdose, which meant it was time to bring in the psychologist, a process they all despised as it invariably drew a negative response from the detective, and left them to deal with the man-child afterwards. It would be interesting to see whether Sherlock would recognise the man, however, as he had seen him before on several different occasions, and how he would react. There were so many variables and unknowns that not even Mycroft could give a reasonable idea of what they should expect.

"Not you." From Sherlock's mouth was not one of them.

"You remember me then?" The psychologist asked, trying to mask his surprise at the unusual response to his presence. The younger Holmes had a tendency to either glare and not answer any questions, or to answer all the questions with increasing confusion. He took it as a good sign.

"I remember everything." Sherlock replied hoarsely, fidgeting with his wedding ring, unsure of himself.

The psychologist turned to Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow, and nodded towards the door, dismissing him for now. Once his brother was up to it, there would be a full evaluation, but now was not the time. Sherlock watched the man leave, before he sighed heavily, ruffled his hair in frustration, and tried to get up, his knees buckling as his legs remembered how to function. He would have fallen flat on his face, had Mycroft not rushed across the room to catch him, and bundle him back onto the bed- an effort that left both brothers breathing heavily.

"I need to see my wife, Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly, his speech slightly slurred and gruff from disuse.

"Then I shall bring her into you. You are in no fit state-"

"I'm fine," Sherlock interrupted, shuffling to the edge of the bed to attempt getting up again, when Mycroft sat next to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

"You've been in a coma for a month, Sherlock." Mycroft informed him quietly, hoping that the gravity of the situation would sink in somewhat, and he wouldn't have to pick his brother off of the floor a second time- he wasn't sure his back could take it. Sherlock sighed dramatically, pouted, and then reluctantly acquiesced to his brother's idea, waving his hand towards the door, before it flopped down back to his side without permission.

* * *

Molly was sat anxiously on the sofa in 221B, and although she had been calmed somewhat by the doctor's report of good physical health, and encouraged by the cautious optimism of the psychologist, she could not bring herself to judge the situation until she'd seen him with her own eyes. Her train of thought was interrupted by Mycroft coming out of the bedroom, looking tired, but with a small smile on his face- maybe it was time to be hopeful after all.

"He's asking for you. For his wife," Mycroft said, standing next to the kitchen table, his smile carrying through to his voice. "He claims to have remembered everything,"

Molly nodded in reply, her excitement quickly mellowed by what the reality of what Sherlock remembering would mean for her. The hope for her future quelled by the very real doubts that plagued her mind – would he still want everything that they'd planned all those years ago? She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and made her way towards Sherlock's bedroom, taking a glass of water from Mycroft on her way. She set the glass down his bedside table, and was about to walk over to the chair on the other side of the room when Sherlock reached out and grasped for her hand, but his sluggish limbs mistimed the interaction, and instead of stopping her, he simply brushed her fingers with his. She flinched, like she had been given an electric shock, it had been years since they'd shared such an intimate gesture, and Molly was wholly unused to it.

"Sit," He croaked, patting the space next to him limply, the earlier efforts of sitting having drained most of his energy.

She sat down on the bed next to him and rearranged his pillows, helping him to sit up more easily, before giving him some of the water she'd brought in. They sat in silence for a moment before Sherlock reached over and took her hand in his. She could feel the cool metal of his wedding ring against her skin, and was relieved that he hadn't taken it off yet. They stayed that way, knowing there would be painful conversations to be had, but now was not the time, until Mycroft poked his head in the door and informed them he was leaving, and would be back with John tomorrow lunchtime. Molly shuffled awkwardly, muttering about how she should go home too,

"Stay. Please." Sherlock whispered, and she could do nothing else.

He fell asleep not long after Mycroft had left, and Molly took the opportunity to change out of her work clothes, and into some pyjamas, slipping one of Sherlock's dressing gowns over the top. She pottered about the flat, checking on the food status, and making a note of what she'd need to buy in now he was awake again. There was some tinned soup at the back of one of the cupboards that she decided to have for her dinner, Sherlock could share it with her, and some bread that was miraculously not mouldy. She suspected that Mycroft had been putting some supplies in for the last few days, making sure that there would be something for her, and for Sherlock when he eventually woke up.

She knew Sherlock would want to be kept busy when awake, so she brought his laptop and mobile phone into the bedroom, and placed them on the bedside table, moving the water over to the other side. She checked her watch, he'd been asleep for an hour and it was approaching dinnertime, so she began to warm the soup through and find a clean plate for the bread. She also made a sugary cup of tea for Sherlock, mostly to keep his hands occupied. She woke him gently, before moving him into a sitting position, supported by a small mountain of pillows. He smiled drowsily, appreciative that she was fussing as little as possible. He took the tea from her, supporting it with both hands in his lap while she ate most of the soup. He had a little bread, and a little soup, along with half the tea – more than he'd usually have on a five-day case, Molly thought wryly - before succumbing to sleep again. She left him to rest, opting to wash up, and do some online shopping, that way she could be productive while still keeping an eye on him, as there was a reasonable chance his stomach would object to the presence of food again after so long without it.

She took his laptop from the bedside table and sat down on the chair over by the window, hoping that his password would be the same as it ever was. For all his bluster and outward complexity, her Sherlock was a creature of habit, and his password remained the same 10 digit code it had been for years: their wedding date prefixed and suffixed by zero. She smiled to herself, maybe recovery wouldn't be as arduous as she'd feared. After she'd done her Sainsbury's order, and arranged for an early delivery, she went through his emails, just to cull those that even she could solve.

Just as she was finishing up, Sherlock let out a strangled scream in his sleep, waking himself up. She quickly relocated the laptop to the bedside table, freeing herself to try and calm him down. It wasn't unusual for him to have nightmares, he'd had them for as long as she'd known him, but with the recent recovery of his memories, she was concerned about what might be surfacing- now was not the time for that conversation. Luckily it was one of his recurring nightmares, one she'd dealt with many times, and he calmed down almost instantly once he saw her face. She reached over and stroked his hair, reacquainting herself with the soft, dark curls, lulling him back to sleep. She laid down next to him, content just to be allowed back into his personal space, and rested her forehead on his shoulder blade. He needed a shower, but she could overlook that for one night.

It was the best night's sleep she'd had in a long while.

* * *

Molly woke up early the next morning, refreshed and ready for the day. She allowed herself ten minutes more in bed, snuggled up to Sherlock, before getting up to wash and dress for the day. She checked her phone on her way to the bathroom, finding a text from Mycroft confirming she had the rest of the week off. The pathology department had been very good to her over the last few years, having a brother-in-law with significant sway had helped, and she let Mycroft think it was mostly his influence, but really it boiled down to the fact that Mike was a sweetheart.

She washed, dressed, got the shopping in, unpacked it, and had just finished cooking breakfast when she heard an almighty thud from the bedroom – Sherlock was awake. She nudged the door open with her foot to find him sat on the floor, scowling at his legs. She rolled her eyes, evidently his common sense had taken a short leave of absence.

"Did you forget you've been in a coma?" She asked, a hint of exasperation in her voice, as she put the two bowls of porridge down on the chair, before bending down to help him back into bed.

"You are freakishly strong," He commented, breathing heavily from the effort it had taken to stand up, choosing to ignore her earlier jibe.

"So everyone keeps telling me. Eat up," Molly smiled, handing him the bowl of porridge with raisins on.

They talked as they ate, discussing when various people would visit, and how old friends were doing, staying to neutral ground. Molly mentioned the birth of baby Watson briefly, before moving on to Mrs Hudson's latest beau, pretending not to notice the flash of guilt across his face, or the shame in his eyes. She hoped that it was just John that Mycroft was bringing, not Mary and the baby as well, as that might prove too much.

After breakfast, Molly tidied up, and ran Sherlock a bath. It wasn't so much that he was being visited, and his vanity demanded it, but that after a month of bed-washes, he was in dire need of one.

"Sherlock, your bath is ready," She said poking her head around the bathroom door, eternally grateful that he had an en-suite and she didn't have to get him upstairs.

"You always called me Liam," He replied quietly, looking up at her with an indecipherable look on his face.

"Sherlock suits you. Now come on, before it gets cold." Molly said softly with a smile, helping him to his feet and across the short expanse of floor between his bed and the bath. To her relief, he manged to remove the ratty old t-shirt and pyjama trousers that he had on by himself, and she didn't have to support too much of his weight as he sat down in the tub. She averted her eyes, blushing furiously, as she stood up and made to leave the bathroom, making it to the doorway before he said her name.

"Molly," Sherlock sighed, reading the uncertainty radiating off of her in waves easily, and running a hand through his hair in frustration, "I understand this is… difficult…" He continued gently, trying to give them both an out.

"I have no expectations of you," She interrupted softly, looking up from the floor, to see her concerns mirrored in his eyes.

"Would you…?" He asked tentatively, pointing to the fluff on his chin. Molly gave him a strained smile, and nodded, appreciating the small smile he gave her in return. She was very tempted to say no to shaving his face, partly because it was a very intimate gesture, but also because she found the unkempt look quite attractive.

It took twenty minutes to get Sherlock shaved, washed, and out of the bath, and twice as long again to argue about what he was going to wear, and where he was going to sit to receive expected company. In the end, Molly won, and he did not put on a suit, nor did he relocate himself to the lounge. With Sherlock back in bed, propped up against the pillows, albeit very much against his will, he projected the image that nothing had happened; he had his laptop on, and his phone in hand, muttering away to himself. Molly rolled her eyes, and went to put the kettle on, as his parents were due any minute now.

The first visitor, however, was not a Holmes, it was not even a Watson, it was Lestrade. Mrs Hudson showed him up, taking the opportunity to check in on Sherlock, and bring up some homemade gingernut biscuits, about the only thing capable of tearing his attention away from his phone. While he was occupied by the biscuits, Mrs Hudson took the opportunity to remove said phone from the detective, handing it to Molly on her way out. The two shared a look before Molly took Lestrade through to see Sherlock, carrying two cups of tea.

"Greg." Sherlock acknowledged, taking the tea from Molly and dunking a gingernut straight in. Molly smiled fondly, before turning around to hand Lestrade his tea. She disappeared out of the room momentarily to grab her own, but not without taking the laptop off of Sherlock first. He glared at her back, as she left the room

"Good to see you back, mate," Lestrade said happily, a big grin on his face.

"I… Yes. Thank you," Sherlock replied, unsure how to respond. He was not yet sure whether he was pleased to have remembered everything, and whether the situation was in fact 'good'.

"Any good cases, G?" Molly asked, as she sat down on the edge of the bed, handing the older man a couple of gingernuts that had managed to evade Sherlock.

"No." Sherlock answered before Lestrade got a chance, "Why's he got my biscuits?"

"They aren't just for you," Molly scolded,

"Good to see things getting back to normal," Greg laughed, taking a gulp of his scalding tea, he only had around fifteen minutes to spare before he had to get back to the yard so it would have to be a quick cuppa.

He was just finishing up when the door heard opening below, and given the lack of 'happy shrieking' Mrs Hudson was not greeting Mrs Holmes, so it had to be John and Mycroft that were about to enter the flat.

"How much does John know?" Sherlock asked quietly,

"Nothing," Molly answered quickly, rolling her eyes at his disapproving expression, "What? I couldn't tell radio John about us! You'd have deduced it off him in two minutes!"

"He's going to go mental," Greg mumbled, glad he wouldn't be in the room for the fallout of that conversation.

"Mycroft and I agreed that he wasn't to know anything until you've seen the specialist," She continued, ignoring Greg's contribution.

"I saw him yesterday," Sherlock said indignantly,

"For a proper appointment, you clot. You're scheduled in for the day after tomorrow," Molly hissed, there were bridges to be crossed before John could know. She wanted to be able to tell him everything at once, he was more likely to understand that way. Hopefully.


End file.
